Transparency
by DirtyPopsicles
Summary: She wasn't supposed to stir these feelings in him. It wasn't supposed to turn out this way. He was supposed to suffer. He was supposed to remember the guilt and the sorrow he inflicted on himself and his family. But she is. Lisbon is stirring up thoughts he hadn't had about a woman in years. Can he move on? Does he even remember how? Fugue In Red (4x10) extended tag.
1. Her

_**A/N: This is an extended one shot, uploading it in parts. Please enjoy. I have never written in this POV before, so please excuse any mistakes. Thank you. Any other updates will be posted to my other stories this week! They are being edited.**_

* * *

 _ **Chapter One – Her**_

* * *

Jane smiles, but it is a sad, broken smile. The wrinkles do not reach his eyes; instead, they seem to falter in the dim light of his family home. He watches her, intently trying to decipher her reasoning. He isn't mad—contrarily, he is thankful. Flashes of memories fill his mind, many are jumbled and disorienting: a piano, a blonde-headed little girl, laughter that haunts his hollow soul even as he stands in the place where those memories linger.

"Are you okay?" she asks, though he barely hears her. He looks at her as though she were transparent until finally he nods. "I'm so sorry, Jane," she adds. Though her voice sounds pitying, he can detect defiance in there, too.

He smiles again, and nods. "It's what I needed," he assures her, though he knows it is a God-awful lie. He pushes out a hand and brushes the top of her shoulder, feeling her chocolate hair on his knuckles. He relishes this for only a moment before he pulls his hand away from her and drops the fake smile. "Thanks for, uh…" he hesitates, trying to form thought in his mind before it seizes and he can no longer hold himself together.

Lisbon understands. He can see that she does. She is an open book to him, only hiding the most important of things within her, closing him off. He can see she is sad; two eyebrows arching up and lips pursing. He wishes he could touch two fingers to her chin and lift it so her eyes search his—reassurance—but he can only stand in silence as the hallway's emptiness adds to the uncomfortable pause between them.

Finally, "You forgot who you were," she says, though she knows she doesn't have to. She needs to say it, because if she doesn't, she's afraid he'll try to make it into an unfunny joke—a mask of deceit.

Surprised by her candor, he feels himself nod. If nothing else, the situation has brought that to his attention. He cannot fathom her reasons other than him forgetting who he was. "It's painful," he admits, closing his eyes for a brief moment, relishing the darkness and the stare of her Irish green eyes. "It's so painful."

She reaches out, and he feels her fingers as they grip his shoulder softly; the touch of her delicate hand makes him open his eyes and stare at her, falling back to his old trick: lifting a smile on his lips that he did not mean. He reaches up—it takes a lot of effort—and removes her hand from him, letting his fingers linger on hers. He will not deny himself that little treat. Finally, he lets go, and it takes an effort not to reach for them again once her warmth vacates.

She hesitates, not wanting to press him, he sees. With a soft tone, she says, "I know." She assures him, and he has no doubt in his mind that she is sincere. "This was the last resort."

 _Last resort_? He takes that in. How easily she could have left him forget the pain and horror that melded his dreams and reality. He finds this bit of information satisfying. She wasn't willing to let him go. At least, not without trying something to jog those awful memories. But, despite the crude awakening she knew he'd receive, it outweighed the price of losing him completely to a world that was not his.

"You're feeling guilty," he says, deciphering her facial expression. "Teresa, you shouldn't feel guilty." And he meant that.

She smiles for the first time, though it is half-hearted. "Stop that," says Lisbon.

He looks away from her face and finds an interesting spot on the floor to look at. It's much easier to talk to her when he doesn't see her lipstick stained lips curl into a pitying smile. "Stop what?" he whispers.

"Reading me," she answers, her voice as even as he's ever heard it.

This makes him look up and meet her eyes with his. He can read what they tell him already, but he inhales sharply and exhales even sharper. "Sorry," he apologizes, though he knows she can tell he doesn't mean it. "It hasn't changed." As soon as he says this, he is overcome with sorrow again. He doesn't know why he is being so open now. He doesn't spend long on questioning himself. Instead, he clears his throat and nods toward the still open door.

The red, fading smiley face that adorns his daughter's old room is still visible. Lisbon reaches around him and pulls on the knob, closing the door on the dreadful reminder. She wants to say something, to tell him that everything is going to be all right, but she knows that will not be enough. It can't be enough. She sighs heavily and reaches out her hand to take hold of his. Immediately, she feels the warmth of his big hand in her small one, and she smiles, unfalteringly.

He does not question where she is leading him; he is too busy focusing on the warmth her hand is currently trailing, up his arm, around his shoulder, and down his spine, making it tingle as she tugs and pulls. They get to the bottom of the stairs before she turns to him, her face illuminated by the windows beside her.

"I want to take you somewhere," she says with a smile. "Let's go do something that scrubs away the sadness. Even if for just a night, Jane."

He's intrigued. "Where?"

"You look like you could do with a drink," she answers, and drops his hand.

He is a little confused. "Drink? Where, at the office?"

She shakes her head. "No. I don't keep Tequila there anymore," she answers, her face growing wistful. "Want to drive with me?"

He laughs. "You're my ride," he reminds her, his eyes shining and his mouth grinning.

"Then, let's go," she urges. She turns to open the door, and he follows her out.

The drive is quiet, reflective. Neither speak until they are outside of her apartment door, and, after a brief struggle, the key turns and they usher inside. Even once inside, there is little conversation as she tells him to sit at the kitchen table while she pours a nice Tequila—the same brand she stows in her drawer at the CBI. She grabs two glasses.

"We could use this," she says as she pours the golden liquid into one glass and hands it to Jane. "Drink up."

In one gulp, he does just that. He watches her through the bottom of the glass as she does the same. She reaches and pours him another.

"I feel better already," he says, though he doesn't know if it is actually true, or if it is the alcohol slowly making its way through his system.

"Me, too," she echoes, and pours herself another, as well. "Me, too."

"How did you know about the…" he trails off.

"…smiley face?" she finishes. She sips her Tequila, then sets it down in front of her. "Brett Partridge," she admits. That _creep-o-zoid_. "He'd tell anyone who would listen."

He tilts his head at that and gulps the Tequila in his hands. "I didn't know he was a forensics tech back then," he says, because what he would rather say would be rude and not relevant. "You knew it would bring me out of my…" he looks for an appropriate term, then adds, "…stupor."

She ponders answering, but decides better of it and just nods.

"Why?" He knows he is pushing, but if he doesn't get the answer he cannot read on her face, it will drive him insane.

She reaches down and pulls at the cross adorning her neck. "Because we all have that one thing that makes us feel something, Jane. It's the one thing we'd die to keep with us."

 _Guilt_ , is what she wanted to tell him. The face represents the guilt he thinks he should endure. She doesn't have to tell him that, though. She knows he understands. She watches as his face turns; he is thinking of something that is loud enough to reflect behind his tired eyes.

Jane cocks his head. He is thinking hard and fast now. Her words are true; he _would_ die to keep that with him. But there is also another thing he would die to keep with him:

 _Her_.

And that very revelation shakes him to the core. Sat in her kitchen drinking Tequila with her, there is a dawning comprehension. It was a feeling he's felt before, but not so strongly and definitely not in the same capacity as friendship. Why didn't he see it before? Why had it taken him so long to understand? Everything was starting to make sense: the sensations that run down his back when she touches him, the way he hangs onto her every word, every sliver of attention she gives him, the reason he hadn't given up and tried to locate Red John all on his own: _her_.

 _He loves her_.

He loves her, and suddenly he is frightened. He is scared about what this means. He is up from the kitchen chair before she can even understand what is happening. He can hear her calling his name from behind, but his thoughts are too loud; they rattle in his brain like a cement truck. He reaches her apartment door, tears it open and walks down the steps to the parking lot. He knows she is his ride and he is a little drunk, but he cannot turn back. He cannot face her. He cannot allow himself even one moment of happiness. He was not about to invite anyone or anything that could make him feel and think the way Lisbon could.

He can still hear her calling for him, but her voice is drowned out by the thump of his heart and the thoughts in his mind:

 _I love her, but I can't allow myself to have her_.

He doesn't know how long he's walked before he can go no further. His vision is clouded, and he is stumbling a little. He finds a bench in a remote part of a park and curls up.

 _I can't allow myself to have her._

And he drifts into an inebriated sleep.


	2. Him

_**Chapter Two- Him**_

* * *

She lets him go. She knows that she is in no condition to follow. Even if she were unhindered from the Tequila, she knows she would not follow, either. Years of intimate knowledge of him have given her a good idea when he needs to be alone and when he needs a right kick in the butt. Instead of going after him, she sighs heavily and closes her apartment door. She is unsure what to do next; having another drink would probably allow her mind to relax and her body to sleep, but she doesn't even know if she wants to sleep. She finds her mind works better when she's in the twilight of being drunk, and she knows adding more alcohol is not a good idea.

She turns herself from the kitchen where the drinks sit idly and instead sets herself into her favorite recliner. She sits forward and places her hands on her knees, dips her head in thought. Her mind is manic, but that has nothing to do with her inebriation; her mind is always this way. She closes her eyes and tries to think back in the evening and try to recall anything that may have offended him so profoundly that he leaves in the middle of a drink. She can think of nothing. Her mind goes from confusion to anger; this is not the first time he has done this to her, and she feels he is sending mixed signals.

"Mixed signals?" she asks herself as she opens her eyes.

That thought sends her reeling. Mixed signals? She figures it must be the Tequila getting to her…but what if it isn't? What if everything she has witnessed and put up with the past few years had meaning? What would let Teresa Lisbon, a self-proclaimed married-to-the-job type, stick with someone who leaves her, abuses her authority, and doesn't even apologize for it? Why would she allow this to continue? She screws her face up and realizes, for the first time, that she doesn't have an answer. Untrue, she quickly amends. She does have an answer for it, but it couldn't be possible…could it?

She always thought Patrick Jane was a good-looking man. You'd have to be foolish not to think so, but she always thought of her relationship with him as professional, and always chalks up her prevalence to allow him to abuse her authority as being sensitive to his plight and because she was not sure he would be able to function if he wasn't given some kind of supervision. Perhaps she had it all wrong. Maybe the reason she continually gives him passes is because she actually has feelings for him. And, if she was being completely honest with herself, she never really sat and thought about their relationship quite like this.

Suddenly, things start to make sense to her. When he had the scheme to get Red John and had shot the wrong man, she wondered why she had not only risked her job but also risked her life for one of Jane's schemes. Now it made perfect sense. She loves him. _**She. Loves. Him**_ **.** When he was kidnapped, there was worry, sure, but there was something else she felt just under the skin that she couldn't, at the time, place. It was akin to losing a loved one—someone you couldn't live without.

"I love him," she says aloud. For some reason, when she says it out loud, it makes her heart chirp. "God!" she states when she realizes something else.

The look on Jane's face before he fled flashes in her softly buzzed brain; it is the look she can feel on her own face right now—dawning comprehension mixed with the scary and unsure feelings that accompany the realization you love the person you are sitting with.

She brings one hand off her knee and uses it to cup her mouth. This explains her feelings of mixed signals with Jane. As for herself, this is why she brought him to his family home tonight. Besides being tired of his deceitful ways, she is concerned that he will never return to her Jane—that he will leave her again and never return. She understands that is selfish of her, but she cannot let him go. He has pain, but without the pain, there can be no healing. There can be no moving on. She understands that what she did earlier in the evening is both for Jane and herself. She realizes how alone she feels and how much Jane makes her feel something that lessens the feeling.

And she understands that Jane must feel the same way. He ran away tonight because he was feeling something for her. She is no longer angry at him; instead, she is grateful to him for allowing herself to open up inside, even if no one can hear it.

"I love him," says Lisbon again, because it feels good on her lips. "And he loves me."

She sighs deeply and sets herself back on her recliner. She reaches down to pull the footrest up and curls herself into a ball. The alcohol is pushing her under. She closes her eyes and falls into an inebriated sleep.

* * *

She has a slight headache, but she shakes it off and drives herself a few blocks to her favorite beverage café. She decides on a strong coffee and a small Oolong tea. She pays for her drinks and drives to the small street that leads back to the main road. As she reaches the intersection, she gazes out of the side window at a small park. Her eyes rake over the empty playground, and her attention is taken over by a familiar silhouette outlines on one of the benches in the back. She takes in the rumpled blond hair, the equally crumpled suit, and she decides to pull over.

With the warm tea in her hands, she steps through the empty playground. He notices her and looks up. She nods and hands him the warm cup of tea. He takes it and gives her a small smile, though it is only brief on his face.

"You spent the night here?" Lisbon asks.

"Everything was wavy," Jane admits, sips on his tea. "Seemed like a good idea at the time."

She says nothing. She lets a few beats go by. She doesn't want to make things uncomfortable between them; risk their friendship by opening herself up. It would be a mistake, she fears. She decides to keep things casual.

"I wasn't sure how you take your tea." She's lying. She knows exactly how he likes his tea: three sugars and a splash of honey.

"You're an awful liar, Teresa," he says with a chuckle. "It's fine, thank you." There is a beat, then, "So when are we going to talk about what happened last night?" He knows her too well. Too, too well.

She sighs and looks at her watch. "We've got about an hour before we're expected at the CBI," she answers. "But we really don't need to talk about it, Jane. It was a tough night, okay?"

She is taken aback by his look when her gaze meets his. "What?"

"If you ask me to be honest with you right now, Teresa," he says, and sets his tea down on the bench rail, "I will be. Completely, in fact."

She holds his gaze for a minute. She tries to see if he is being sincere. She deduces he is. "Honest about what?" she whispers. The whisper is more about her sudden breathlessness than anything else.

"Everything," he replies simply.

She is skeptical about this; Jane does not just open himself up and allow his feelings to pour out. Then again, things have never evolved to this point. He is waiting for her answer.

She cocks her head.

She nods.

"Okay," he whispers through his lips, "here goes everything."


	3. Them

_**Chapter 3 - Her, Him, Them.**_

* * *

He uses one finger to trace the spout of his tea lid. He's slightly nervous, though not as much as he thought he would be. He searches her face, looking for somewhere to start in her emerald eyes. He clears the thickness from his throat and tears his gaze from her, choosing to look at a particularly interesting spot of rust on one of the monkey bars just ahead. He can feel her gaze on his face, and he knows she understands that he is stalling. He also knows he cannot keep putting the start of the conversation off, and he did tell her he would tell her the honest truth. But since when did he, Patrick Jane, do anything so easily? He always has a witty, quick statement or word, but there is nothing witty or fast that he can say to her. There is nothing that he wants to rush, but he has always been able to find the words for any situation. Now, he sits on the bench in heavy silence, his mind whirling with possible avenues to open a dialog with her.

"Jane," she says softly, "you don't have to say anything if you don't want to talk about it."

He pulls his gaze to meet her eyes once again. _Talk about_ **it** _,_ she says. It did not strike him that she might already know his reasons for fleeing. This idea makes his stomach flop. "You know, don't you?" He is shocked that he hadn't been able to read that from her. He nods, though he isn't sure why he is doing it.

She nods in answer, and he loses her eyes once again, drawing his bluish-green irises to her clasped hands on her lap. "Yes," says Lisbon simply. He is thankful that she does not say more than that; she is giving him a chance to let it go. He thinks about this only for a moment before he decides it would be truly unfair to leave things unspoken between them—he's hurt her enough.

"Do you remember when you were a little girl, Teresa?" He looks at her now. "Do you remember that—that one special doll you had that you never wanted to let go?" He sees her nod uncertainly and continues. "You remember how it felt when you lost it for the first time? The—the feeling of pure helplessness and the world crumbling?" He shakes his head sorrowfully. "It's kind of like that, Teresa."

She understands his analogy perfectly. The doll to her is his wife and daughter to him. When he lost his wife and child, his world fell apart. She can remember the moment she lost her beloved doll her mother bought for her at the thrift store, and she remembers vividly the way she felt when she knew it wasn't coming back. She is also very aware that it was hard for her to let go; to acknowledge that she had to move on.

"I'm sorry," she whispers. "It's too soon." She uncrosses her legs in anticipation of standing up, but he reaches a palm out to stop her movements.

"Stay," he pleads softly. "I am not finished, Teresa." He drops his hand and sighs. "That's human nature. To grieve and to keep that burning within us. I've—I've tried to reason with myself that the reason I haven't moved on yet is because it is a personal punishment." He clicks his tongue. "How is someone like you going to live with me when I can't even live with myself?"

She shakes her head quickly, relaxing beside him. "You keep beating yourself up over what happened, Jane," she answers, "but it has nothing to do with you. You didn't make the choices Red John did."

"It doesn't matter. What I am trying to say, Teresa, is realizing something that rewards me is almost unbearable. If—If I allow myself to love you, that is a reward. I don't deserve such luxuries, Teresa! I don't deserve that."

She says nothing to that. She knows anything she says to him will fall on deaf ears. Instead, she reaches out a hand slowly, careful to pull back if he hesitates. He does not, and she takes his hand into hers. She can see he is upset.

"But I want it," he says honestly. "I want to love you, but you don't reward bad behaviors. They teach you cops the same thing."

"They also teach us to have patience and empathy, Jane," she responds with a squeeze of his hand. "I have both."

He wants to tell her that patience isn't one of her strong suits, but he decides not to push that. "I don't even know if you feel the same. If you don't, I understand."

She laughs now. "Your sudden departure last night got me thinking," she says. "Mainly why I bother putting up with your crap."

He smiles a genuine smile. "And?"

"It seems like I put up with all your bull crap because there are feelings." She doesn't say she loves him, but only because she fears he may not want her to.

This is rejected when he says, "Feelings?" He smiles wider. "What kind of feelings?"

He is teasing her, and she thinks this is a good sign. "You won't freak out if I say it?" She curves her eyebrows.

The smile fades as quickly as it drew across his face. "No," he says, "but I don't want you to say it until you hear what I have to say."

"Okay."

"I—I can say the words. Words are so easy, Teresa," he says, "but I can't _act_ on them. Not..." he trails off, "...not right now."

She looks at him for a long time, and he lets his face fall. He was afraid of this—she won't wait for him. He is wondering if telling her the truth was the proper call when she shocks him by laughing. He cocks his head at her and tries to figure out what has come over her.

"That explains why you took off in the middle of Tequila," Lisbon says with a chuckle. She becomes serious. "Well, Jane, I can't say I am going to wait all my life, either." As long as they were being honest…

"So, I figured," he replies. "You'll only have to wait until I find Red John. I don't even know if I will be ready then, but I am willing to try."

She squeezes his fingers. "Well, then how about this: if we are both in a place in the future where we are ready to give this a shot, we will. No rushing, no looking back on regrets. If it feels right for us, then we will revisit this conversation. How does that sound?"

He shrugs. "There may be things you don't like about me in that time." He did not elaborate on this point. "What then?"

"You can't get rid of me, Jane. I am going to be here no matter what. And if we decide in the future that we can give ourselves a shot, then I will be here then, too. I love you," she says for the first time. It tingles on her lips and she can feel the hum as it floats down her spine. "There. I said it. I love you."

He smiles so wide at her that she smiles in automatic response. "That sounds nice coming from you," he says gently.

"It hit me after you left. I was so selfish, Jane. I allowed you to remember your painful past just so I didn't have to lose you. For that I am sorry."

He shakes his head. "Don't. I'm glad you did," he says sadly. "It was a reminder of who I am. What I am," he amends.

"The face on the wall doesn't make you who you are, Jane. That is not why I am sitting here with you now. You are generous and smart. You help people, Jane. You are doing good deeds for people."

"Selling them hope."

"But isn't selling people hope still doing them a service? I know you gave me hope, Jane." She lets go of his hand and sits back on the bench. "Before you came along, I wasn't sure. I've seen so much death and sadness."

"You still do."

She nods in agreement. "Of course, I do. The difference is you made me believe in good again. And, to be honest, I think that is what probably made me look at you in a different light. You have your methods, but at the end of the day, you see to giving people the chance to have closure. Isn't that what you want for yourself?"

"I hope to, one day," Jane says. "Maybe move on with my life. Be able to love you the way you deserve."

"And so I will wait," she answers. "I can't promise it will be forever, Jane, but I will wait for as long as I can. When and if you are ready to move on in your life and live again the way that makes you most happy, I'll be right here. Probably with more Tequila," she jokes and laughs.

He grins. "Deal," he declares.

"Deal," she counters. Suddenly, she is more conscious of herself and the heat filling her cheeks.

She feels him reach over and take her hand. She lifts her eyes to his and she can see he is abashed, too.

"It's nice to have something good to possibly look forward to," he says.

She nods. "Yes," she decides, "It is."

* * *

 **THE END.**

* * *

 ** _A/N: I hope you enjoyed this extended One shot._**


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